Scars
by Aelineth
Summary: Moonlight drowns out all but the brightest stars. How can one not marvel at such beauty? It was a conundrum to her beyond knowledge how the Horse-lords could disregard the most beautiful things in the world, yet small or simple they may appear. Her task in aiding Theoden King to repel against the growing war may help her better understand them. NOT a tenth-walker. EomerxOC
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: Oh, where to begin? Where to begin...Well, along with _Arnor's Hope_, this here story is my other priority. _Scars_ has come a very long way with a years worth of planning and outlining, and a lot of re-outlining and rewriting. A lot of rewriting. I am very happy to present the story to you and hope it peaks your interest and is just as an enjoyable read as _Arnor's Hope_ might be. But first, I must give a lot of credit to the one person who made this story possible. My beta-reader, Gwedhiel. Oh, Gwedhiel, how lost would I be without your guidence! You have stuck with my tiring butt and you have so wonderfully encouraged me in more ways than one. Not only have you taught me so many things, which has proved to help me a lot in my writing, but you have helped me more with my writing and the style that I wish to acquire according to the world that is Lord of the Rings. Really, I could go on.**

**Reviews are loved. Constructive criticism are worshiped. Let me know your thoughts!**

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><p><strong>Scars<strong>

**Chapter One:  
>Darkness Follows<strong>

**Written By:  
><strong>

She had reached the Black Gate. Dark clouds rushed across the sky, driven by a parching wind, but now and then they broke apart and revealed the gibbous moon. By its light she could make out that before her, and all hope remaining was quenched. High cliffs upon both sides and ahead were two sheer hills, blacked-boned and bare. They were the Teeth of Mordor, two towers strong and tall, and they were not left unguarded. They teemed with Orcs, sleepless with eyes watching everywhere. Her fingers sought and found the gash where the blood still seeped through her sleeve. All her other injuries, the bruises and grazes she had amassed during her wild flight in the darkness, were nothing compared to this. She felt pressure, as if a heavy stone lay on her arm and beneath it the dagger was still piercing, digging deeper and deeper. So strange how painful such a simple metal could be, she thought.

She must not. She must not become as one of them. But she would have to address her disquiet on the matter in a safer place. First she had to find a way to pass through the gate. She glanced up at the Black Gate and frowned as a grim thought came to mind, but she quickly abandoned it. To climb the Black Gate was no wise choice, nor would she dare make the attempt.

A faint noise filled her ears, pulling her from her thoughts. Turning, she looked ahead and was uncertain whether to be joyous or fearful. She ducked behind the nearest sarsen. Haradrim, two hundred strong at least, were marching towards the Black Gate, each row carrying one lit torch. They remained far and it would take some time for them to arrive at the Gate, and thankfully the glow of their torches helped her discern the pace of their approach. She still had some time, but she would have to be swift to act. Blending with the Haradrim may be her sole chance of escaping, and it was it was a chance burdened with many a risk. But she had come this far and she would not give into her doubts. She had to be free, even should death take her in the effort to be. And if so, she would lie on soft, green grass. But she feared what might become of her.

No! It would not happen. She would fight the darkness as long as she still drew breath.

She had little enough to disguise herself, but what she had would serve her well. She shrugged off her cloak and examined it. It was long and the fabric thin and the grey dye had mostly faded, but in the twilight it was black as nightfall itself. It would hide her well and even if it did not, her garments were black to match the Haradrim's and would scarcely be seen. Her hood could be wrapped about her head in such a way as to resemble their veiled faces. The gold jewelry she wore would serve to make convincing such a mask.

Her eyes drifted to the distance. The lights of their torches still glowed dimly and the sound of their footsteps reached her ears scarcely. She lowered her eyes to her hands and for a moment, she stood there in silence as a shadow filled her eyes. She shook her head, breaking herself from her trance quickly. She donned the jewelry and then draped the cloak about her head so it covered all but her eyes. With a sigh her eyes closed and she leaned heavily against the stone. The events of the past days were at last beginning to weary her body, and weighed heavily upon her.

She moved her hands to adjust her veil, but stopped when she felt a lump within the fabric. She furrowed her brow. With care, she pulled it out without disturbing her disguise. It was a piece of parchment. She immediately recognized it. It was an order to carry requesting her to slay an enemy. The order was from her lieutenant; the last order she was given before her imprisonment. She had seen it before but had forgotten about it when she was taken away as a prisoner in Barad-dûr. Rankling as the sight was to her eyes, she was smiling. Not only could she disguise herself as one of the Haradrim but she could pose as a messenger as well, a commander of the Haradrim host, even.

As far as the guards in the towers knew, she was a figure of authority over a host of Haradrim seeking passage through the Black Gate, a mission to execute for their Master. It would be granted to her. That would be her advantage. But with it came a risk of being unveiled as a deceiver.

Readjusting her head garb, she tucked away her hair so it only flowed down her back. Thankfully, her hair was dark enough to make the disguise believable. She looked back at the marching host one last time before sliding out of hiding. Bearing what little hope she had, she strode forward to the tall and looming Black Gate and gazed at the Teeth of Mordor, its towers just as tall and strong.

In her best Harad accent she yelled to the towers above, "Open the Gate! We are to go through!"

She did not have to wait long for an Orc to peer over the parapet. He snarled down at her. "Who demands it?" He was larger than the rest of the Orcs and wore heavier armor, staring at her with black, piercing eyes.

"A messenger sent by the Master himself," she called back. "I lead a host." She gestured behind her shoulder at the marching warriors advancing to the Gate. The words were like poison on her lips, but she contained herself.

The Orc sneered and turned to another next to him and spoke in the Black Language. After he finished speaking, the Orc he spoke to growled. "Do not just stand there! Go down, maggot!" the commander barked. His bright, evil eyes scanned the messenger. "This one is suspicious I say…"

The Orc grunted and begrudgingly did as he was bid. Her heart began to beat rapidly. She quickly recovered herself and stood straight and tall as the Orc stood in front of her, and hoped her eyes betrayed no fear. "Where is your order?" he demanded.

She was grateful for the parchment in her possession. Without hesitation, she retrieved it and held it out for the Orc. He snatched it from her hand and gazed at it before giving her another look. "Wait here."

The Orc returned to his superior. Her attention was drawn to the marching Haradrim. They were closer now, and continued to draw even closer, faster in pace than she remembered. Or mayhap it was the fear in her heart making it look so? But the bright flare of their torches confirmed her fears. They would soon be at the Black Gate and upon a glance at the tower, she saw there was no motive to open the Gate anytime soon.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath to calm her nerves. They would see. The Haradrim would see upon arrival that she was not one of them. Her face was unmarked, bearing no punctures of black-hued ink. They would see her hair draped down her back and would think it odd, and they would push back her veil. She knew, for she had seen plenty of inspections of Haradrim take place to know what they would look for, and the first appearance to reveal her deceit would be her pale skin. She might pass muster in the dark, but as soon as they shone a torch in her face, they would know all.

"Open the Gate!"

Her attention was brought back to the tower. Before she could register what had been said, a great noise filled the air. It echoed so terribly loud that it hurt her ears, and it took great effort to not cringe. The Orc who had demanded to see her order approached her and returned the parchment. He bid her no fair look before returning to the tower. She gave no regard to him and raised her head. Her heart leapt for joy.

The noise was coming from the Black Gate, as its blackened walls slowly parted from each other. Relief clouded her. Was it true? She had no time to dwell in her thoughts. The marching of the Haradrim no longer was a mere, faint sound. The noise came to an abrupt stop and the Gate in front of her stood open. She blinked once, then again, looking ahead. But the sounds of the marching Haradrim quickly withdrew her from the haze she was beginning to enter, and she took her first step.

At first, it was a small step, slow and cautious. She feared that, despite her success at fooling the Orcs, they would suddenly see her disguise. Or worse, the Haradrim behind would recognize her. But neither happened, and she was soon walking away from the Black Gate as it grew smaller in the distance.

And then she ran.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:**

**First and foremost, thank you to those who reviewed! Your feedback truly means the world to me and I don't take them lightly to heart, so thank you! Any feedback concerning the quality of my writing, the portrayal of the characters, the flow of the chapters, and the storyline itself is greatly appreciated. However, I would not have gotten so far with the story without my beloved beta-reader. Gwedhiel...Ah, what would I be without you? What a dear she is, and a wonderful beta-reader who most certainly knows her knowledge of Tolkien beyond imaginable measure.**

**Reviews are loved. Constructive criticism is worshiped! Please let me know your thoughts!**

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><p><strong>Scars<strong>

**Chapter Two:**  
><strong>Treading In Darkness<strong>

A leather bound book sat in her palms. Her eyes discreetly and slowly ran over the pages, her fingers light in touch and careful as she turned the page. The papers were worn and stained, and very delicate. Age has long affected the condition of the book, and some areas remained unclear to be read, causing her eyebrows knotting together in concentration. But a frown also sat upon her features. It spoke of a servant of evil, yet so absurdly it was written that she laughed. She wondered, however. Was there any truth to the book, and if there indeed was…does this servant still remain?

Why did she read this? Had her dreams so greatly disturbed her that she sought to read a book bound to only make them worse? Her nights were sleepless and were filled with many dark dreams. Dark memories. If she continued, she soon would be unable to even close her eyes. With a sigh, Duvaineth closed the book she held in her hands and returned it to its proper place on the bookshelf. Her eyes were attracted to the large window in the study, the illuminating light of the moon bright and alighting the room with a beautiful white light.

Duvaineth went to the window and gazed through the glass. Her eyes fell nowhere in particular, but she often looked at the rushing water of the falls in the far distance. She heard footsteps; they were quiet as though made with the intent not to disturb her, but she did not turn to meet the person. She knew who it was, and gladly welcomed their presence when they stood next to her. They said nothing, and neither did she for a moment. Finally she spoke, her eyes unmoving from the window, "Sleep remains far from me."

"Such has come to be a nightly custom," they answered, their tone giving away that they already knew her answer, and mayhap the true reason behind it.

"Come and go they do, but never from existence do they fade," Duvaineth said. "They are never far. When I close mine eyes, they return always darker than before, and so great grow they in their darkness that they would sully the earth. Life as we know it to be, but a memory carried to the graves of the Free Peoples of Middle-earth." She then tore her gaze from the window and looked at him. Sorrow drenched her eyes as the flow of a river, and despite her strong efforts to hide it, the heavy weight of weariness and trouble could not be latent. "And then I see the great flames of Evil consuming the world."

Duvaineth took a deep breath. She was quiet for some time, but at length she spoke again. "Forgive me, Lord Elrond. I know my dreams are dark and none too pleasant, and I am certain you would that you not hear in words that you have already seen, and worse."

But the Elf-lord smiled warmly. "When have you been known to dream of pleasantries? Your captivity was a trial long and painful to endure. Wise you are, but as a heavy shadow does the memory of your torments follow you. Is it such for all those who have faced such times, even my own people. But you must allow not the evil to consume your very heart, or naught will be left of you."

"Such befell me once," Duvaineth said darkly. "It shall not happen again."

"No, I believe it will not. You are of a greater strength," Elrond reassured with a smile. He rested a hand on her shoulder, a comforting touch that made vanish her fears. "I say to you, Duvaineth of Lindon, your heart is strong and your will stronger. Let not the dark vapors of your dreams cloud your mind, for you are there in the darkness no more. Sleep, and fear not."

Duvaineth bowed her head to him, a gesture the Elf-lord knew as a promise she would, or would attempt to, at the very least. "I think, Lord Elrond…." She smiled as she raised her head. "I am long overdue to seeing the world and its beauty."

"Do as you will. Your return, when you should choose to, will be welcomed and is looked upon with gladness. For you Imladris holds open her doors, for she is my home and to it I yet welcome you."

Despite the words of Elrond, sleep came not easily to Duvaineth. She tossed and turned and tried to make herself comfortable, but to no avail. The images of her dream were clear as the night, but they did not haunt her; instead, they merely lingered in her mind, and she spent a long while contemplating them, but it did not help her fall asleep any more than did staring at the ceiling. She tried pushing the thoughts away once or twice, but they would soon return, and she lied awake for many hours.

Duvaineth knew not when she fell asleep. Peace and relief washed over her as she slowly slipped into slumber, but the peace did not last long. The dream again returned, darker than before, and she felt entrapped in it. Darkness loomed over her, a heavy reminder of the shadow that followed her – taunting her, torturing her, and telling her she would never be free, and when she awoke in the morning she felt as if she had slept not at all. But she had managed to rest, though not well, and such was all she needed for her coming journey.

She packed very little, only the provisions she needed, and retrieved her weapons: her bow and quiver, a small number of daggers she hid within her garb, and her cloak. It was not often Duvaineth left the safety of Imladris and rode the plains, or hunt Orcs least of all. She loved the world as if it was her very soul, but in her heart was pure hatred for the darkness and death that had fallen upon Middle-earth and little encouraged her eyes to look upon the world. But it was her dream that had placed a heavy weight on her heart, and she desired nothing more than to put the servants of the Dark Lord to their deserving death.

And she would. She would make certain of it.

Duvaineth soon left the Last Homely House and stood in the stables, preparing her mare. She had bid farewell to Lord Elrond and the guests of his home whom she was very fond of. The Elf-lord had wished her well with a warm smile and a small sparkle in his eyes only she knew: he wished her peace. "Go with speed and watch where you tread, for danger lurks well concealed by which even the greatest traveler could be easily fooled," he had told her. His eyes then fell on the blood-red jewel lying on the hollow of her throat, and his eyes grew dark. "Be careful. Let your necklace come not to the sight of stranger nor enemy. You know who hunts you, and gladly would they have either your head or the necklace. Keep it hidden."

Unknowingly, her hand came to her necklace and gingerly fingered the stone, and immediately she retracted her hand when an unnatural coldness touched her fingertips. She dared not look at the necklace. Quickly, she stuffed it within her tunic and grabbed the reins to her horse, Gilroch, and mounted. "Tolo, melui nín, si nora-lim!" Duvaineth barely gestured for her horse to gallop – her words were enough of a gesture – and she bolted in a harsh gallop that nearly tossed her much unprepared rider from her saddle, who laughed at her eagerness.

Her horse bore her swiftly, and soon Duvaineth was nearing the path that would lead her out the valley. There, walking along the road into Imladris and standing in her way, was an old Man garbed in grey; from his pointed hat sitting on his head to the soft boots he wore, even his hair and long beard was grey, and in his hand was a staff. He stayed his walk when he saw Duvaineth galloping towards him, and he spoke, but she knew not what he said. Duvaineth abruptly pulled on the reins, shouting in Elvish to her horse, and barely came to a stop in time. The old Man laughed in delight at her, a bright shine of amusement in his eyes. Duvaineth's lips twitched into a smile. "It is unwise to stand in the way."

He raised an eyebrow at her, his smile never leaving his grandfatherly features. "It is unwise to challenge a Wizard."

"Only a fool would dare challenge a Wizard unless he stood assured he would win." The simplicity of her words was even more amusing, and his smile grew wider.

"And such is why, Duvaineth, Wizards have never been challenged!" he retorted.

Duvaineth laughed and smiled fondly at the Wizard, outstretching her arm towards him, to which he firmly yet gently grasped her forearm. "Mithrandir! It is wonderful to see you again, my old friend. But I am afraid you are a bit late to visit. I am departing from Imladris."

"Nonsense!" Gandalf said, leaning on his staff. "I knew you would be departing from Imladris. I wanted to come before you took your leave, and it appears I have done so in excellent timing!"

"No, indeed!" Duvaineth said. "Only Gandalf the Grey has precise timing, whether he is early or late."

"A Wizard is never late! Nor is he ever early. He arrives precisely when he means to," Gandalf rebutted. There was a short pause. His face softened, as did his eyes, and there was a certain look in them that Duvaineth knew all too well, and she knew what was coming. "Only comes he early when he is concerned," he added in a softer tone.

Duvaineth gingerly spoke in slight jest in the hope to raise the Wizard's spirits. However, she knew if it concerned Gandalf the Grey, then it was heavy on his shoulders, and such it was meant to be taken with all sincerity. "I am favored plenty by the Grey Wizard to be thought of. What is it, my friend? Tell me."

Gandalf drew closer to her, tenderly rubbing her mare's nose as he did, and laid a firm hand on her shoulder. "I have a message for you. It has not yet come to pass but will, and when it does I urge you to heed my words greatly, and think not of them carelessly." His voice was deep yet quiet, as if he was speaking so out of fear he would be heard by others. The deep frown darkening his features told her his words should not be taken lightly. Upon Duvaineth's nod, the Wizard continued. "When grows darker the Shadow, when becomes quiet the world and little hangs in the air…return to Imladris, and seek me."

Duvaineth frowned. Gandalf was a wise person, wiser than she hoped to be, and he could see things that even her Elven eyes could not. She often held counsel with him and she had quickly learned to trust his words, no matter how the odds might seem. Whenever she received warning from him, she heeded them. His words dismayed her, even more so to hear of the Shadow of Mordor. Glancing at the relaxing look on his face, Duvaineth saw he was pleased to see that she was deeply concerned. "I little understand, Gandalf," Duvaineth said softly. "You speak these words and of the Shadow of Evil, but you mean to say more to me."

But Gandalf did not answer her. He merely smiled at her and placed his fingers on the stone of her pendant that had fallen out of her tunic into exposure, and unbeknown to her, he casted a spell on it. "You are no riddle-master, but in time will you see the meaning of my words. So take them not lightly, Duvaineth. We will not see each other for some time, but when comes the time for your return to Imladris…do so with all the haste you can manage."

His words chilled her heart, but the gentle squeeze of his hand on her shoulder brought warmth to her body. Duvaineth nodded rigidly and gathered the reins in her hands, her eyes fixed firmly ahead. She was about to chirrup her horse into a gallop when the Wizard spoke again, stopping her. "Keep it hidden." Gandalf stepped back and smiled at her, offering a slight nod. "Farewell, Duvaineth."

"Farewell, my friend," Duvaineth said softly, and chirruped loudly to her horse. Gilroch burst into a gallop, and soon the shining beauty of the Last Homely House was gone from her sight.

Duvaineth rode all through the day, with the small exception of a meal and some rest for the sake of her horse. Although she did not have a course set in mind and simply rode where the wind blew, Gilroch had a course set in her own. She rode in the direction commanded by her mistress, but she took her far south from the Trollshaws, and nearby the Mitheithel River. The scenery around Duvaineth had changed; there were more patches of grass, though not green and in great need of water. Dust followed her trail as her horse rode swiftly over the plains, and in the near distance she saw the shimmering, flowing waters of the Mitheithel. It was a beautiful sight, though small it was; it had been long since Duvaineth had traversed the plains of Middle-earth, and she had dearly missed it.

Night soon showed signs of shadowing the world in its darkness, and Duvaineth quickly sought a safe place to make camp. Amid the grassy plains, she found a spot nearby the river. Its flowing water was gentle and quiet, and a tall tree stood nearby, providing shelter. Gilroch was not so willing, much to the amusement of her rider. Duvaineth had spent several years in Imladris, not once looking towards the valley where the world lied beyond. But Gilroch had; several years without roaming the lands was too long for her, and she was greatly eager to explore the world once more. But finally she complied. Duvaineth dismounted and made a small fire, and as the fire burned she tended to her mare, undoubtedly weary and famished from the long hours of bearing her mistress. After Gilroch was tended to and fed, Duvaineth returned to her fire and ate her own small meal; a slice of bread and an apple.

After she had her filling, Duvaineth leaned into the broad bark of the tree. Her eyes lifted to the sky and marveled at the crystalline beauty that was the stars. It was a sight that had been seen many a time before in Imladris, but in the open plains there was a certainly beauty to it that could not be explained. As memorized by the night-sky as she was, Duvaineth's attention soon fell away from it and onto the cold pressure of a stone lying on her chest underneath her tunic. Slipping her hand in her shirt, Duvaineth withdrew her pendant from its hiding spot and held it in her hand. Gazing upon the pendant filled her with relief and warmth, but also dread.

It was a beautiful piece of jewelry, one that a king could not deny his queen. The jewel lay in the center, blood red and shining brightly as if it were the moon itself, held by many silver wires and formed in the shape of a dragon's eye. But what gathered her attention was the red stone. Deep within the stone, what only Duvaineth herself could see, was a tinge of black. It swirled about within the stone like a wandering soul. It gave her a cold shiver, dark and unwanted and its touch like ice.

Duvaineth could no longer look at it, her heart heavy with a shadow looming over her. She stuffed the pendant into her tunic and closed her eyes as relief fell over her, and it was no more. The heaviness on her heart faded, and so did the dread she had felt, but when she tried to sleep she could not. Duvaineth tossed and turned for an hour in what was a hopeless attempt to fall into slumber, and it was not well into the night. Only a couple of hours before dawn did she manage to fall asleep. It was no dreamless slumber either. Dreams came of taunts and misery, and a dark menace veiled by the darkness.

When Duvaineth awoke with a start, she saw that dawn had already arrived, and the sun was slowly rising above the horizon and giving life to a new day. Doubtful she would be able to slip back into slumber, or even sleep peacefully if she did, Duvaineth rose and tended to Gilroch and herself before preparing the continuance of her journey. In less than five minutes, Duvaineth was galloping away into the breaking dawn. Gilroch eagerly bore her mistress, but this time, it was Duvaineth who was eager to return to her travels. The memories of her dream still burned harshly in her mind. But even so, she found herself feeling wearier than she had last night, and the sleep beckoning her so enticingly.

Duvaineth forced herself to stay awake, but such only worked for a short time. Somehow, she had laid her head upon her horse's neck, simply watching the scenery pass. A part of her did not want to fall asleep in fear that the dreams would return, but another part of her cried out desperately for sleep. She was unable to resist, and soon her eyes softly closed. For the first time in a very long time, Duvaineth slept a dreamless slumber.

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

**A quick note about a couple of things. _Tolo, melui nín, si nora-lim _means "Come, my sweet, ride on now". Gilroch is related to the meaning of star. The website where I obtain my resources is currently down so I cannot give the exact meaning of the name, but once I can get to it I will make an edit in the chapter to give the proper meaning of her name.**

**For those who are confused and might not know, Mitheithel is an actual river in Tolkien's Lord of the Rings. Because my stories are according to the books, I heavily look over the Middle-Earth map both online and in the books when it comes to navigation, as I find it important to add at least some detail where the character is at, or what is around her, or where they are going. It adds imagery. :)**

**Please let me know your thoughts, especially on Elrond and Gandalf's character. They are one of the two most important characters in the world of Middle-Earth, and you don't want to make them appear out of their character. Your thoughts especially on them is most appreciated!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:**

**First, I would like to give a big thank you to those who reviewed, and extend my gratitude to those who have favorited and followed my story since I last updated. Truly, it means a lot to me! Secondly, I would like to, of course, give thanks to my lovely beta-reader, Gwedhiel, for making this chapter and the chapters to come possible.**

**Reviews are loved. Constructive criticism is worship. Please let me know your thoughts!**

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><p>"They draw close." The smell was stronger now. An hour ago it had been but a faint scent, yet now Duvaineth's face held a deep frown in disgust.<p>

Duvaineth looked up at the tree. She knew to where the party of Orcs headed, and surely they would pass this way. If not, she would know what their course was by the help of the tree and her eyesight. Her journey had not lacked slaying Orcs, and today was no exception. Although their plan was not certain to Duvaineth, there were two certainties of what their plan was – they were either returning to their Master, or were seeking to lay waste to homes and do the bidding of the Dark Lord. There was nothing here but grass, trees, and dirt; no villages were in sight or other travelers that might be felled by the ill fate wrought at the hands of the Orcs. But they would not go very far to ransack homes or put innocent lives to an end.

"Too long a time now have they befouled the earth," Duvaineth murmured, and swiftly dismounted. She shooed Gilroch away into the thicket of trees to her left so that she might be hidden and safe, and perchance enjoy herself at the river bank not far beyond. Quickly, she climbed up the tree, though not far, only high enough for her to be unseen. Her eyes scanned the lands below and ahead of her. Several moments passed and she did not see anything, but she knew they were near for their scent was strong, and she had to use her cloak to shield her nose from the stench.

Her eyes then caught sight of something. It was small, like animals flocking, but Duvaineth's eyes were able to perceive it better. It was the party of Orcs, and they were not far. So Duvaineth sat back and simply waited. She would not risk continuing her road with the knowledge of Orcs roaming her path any more than she would risk traveling at night. She had to be quiet and make her attack in stealth. Riding towards them would end badly. With a group to fight alongside with, it would be successful. Alone, not so much. With her having to go solely against five Orcs, there was some danger to such already. Despite their appearance and movements, they were not to be underestimated. And Duvaineth would rather flee than to overestimate her confidence.

"Keep it up, you worthless maggots!" came a growl. Duvaineth's attention was immediately caught, her eyes shifting to the nearing Orcs. They were within earshot, and she saw their pathetic, grotesque bodies marching through the thickets. Unfortunately, the smell could not be kept away.

Duvaineth slowly slid her bow from her back and held it firmly in her hand. They passed the tree in which the Elf was hidden, but quickly one Orc stopped, followed swiftly by the rest. The Orc, presumably their leader, looked around with his red piercing eyes as he sniffed the air. "What is it?" one Orc asked.

She retrieved an arrow, and notched it to the bowstring.

"I smell…Elf-flesh!"

She drew back the bow, her eyes already focused on her target.

"Elf-flesh! Where?" the Orc cried, frantically looking about. It was not out of fear, but eagerness. "I'm hungry. I do not see—"

The arrow was released, and it pierced the speaking Orc in his neck. Duvaineth frowned. She missed her target, but any dead Orc was a dead Orc. Duvaineth moved fast. The Orcs were now startled and drawing their weapons, having come quickly to the realization that they were being attacked. The Elf dropped herself from the tree and landed on her feet, though she nearly fell on her legs at the harsh movement. Quickly, she shot two arrows, one at a time, and killed two more Orcs. The time came where her quiver of arrows would be of no use to her, and she unsheathed her sword. She turned in time to meet her next opponent. He proved to be a less easy match than the two Orcs she had just killed, and she was forced to evade and parry several attacks before twirling her sword in her hand and thrusting the blade into his chest.

"Enough!" the Orc-leader sneered, brandishing his longsword. "It is my turn." He grinned wickedly at her, baring his sharp, animalistic teeth.

A challenge Duvaineth found him to be. Both sword-wielders parried and dodged their attacks. This Orc was no mere follower. He knew how to fight, but he was too confident, and it quickly became his downfall. He held his sword in both hands and swung at the Elf, but her swift dodge made him stumble, which was surprising to her. But it delayed him. Delayed him indeed, and when he turned about, off his head went. With the Orc-leader now dead, the encouraging growls from his two remaining troops went silent, and Duvaineth heard naught but the sound of the wind – and the sound of a bowstring being drawn.

Duvaineth barely turned when the bowstring was released, and the shaft missed her. Quite an aim, she thought. The Orc that shot the arrow bore a look of fear in his eyes, having now emptied his quiver and his ally bore neither bow nor arrow. Duvaineth smiled to herself, and in one swift movement, she withdrew a dagger from the inside of her boot and threw it at the Orc, and he met his fate with the blade lodged deep into his chest. All left standing was one Orc, and he delayed not in fleeing. But Duvaineth was not going to allow it without giving him a message.

An arrow whistled through the air and struck the Orc in the leg, felling him with a cry from the beast. Duvaineth hovered over his pathetic writhing and stared at him with what she meant to be pity, but instead was amusement. "Go ahead, Elf!" the Orc sneered. "Do what you will. Finish me!"

"No," Duvaineth simply answered. "You will live. But consider it not a blessing." She leaned over and carelessly yanked the arrow from his leg, and he roared in pain. "Return to your Master. Tell him the courage of the Free Peoples still stands strong, and he will have to work harder."

Duvaineth turned and left the Orc. She heard his struggles to rise to his feet and touched the hilt of her sheathed sword, half expecting him to attack. But he did not. He fled, and nothing was left but the lifeless bodies of her enemies. Duvaineth let out a breath and wiped her brow. Her attention was no longer on the skirmish that had transpired, but on her hand that bore a deep gash, and was covered in her own blood. Duvaineth frowned. She did not remember feeling pain.

A bright sparkle averted her attention from the wound. A sword lay at the Orc-leader's side. His longsword, Duvaineth realized as she crept closer to it, but it was no Orc blade. No. It was an Elven blade. As Duvaineth picked it up and inspected it, she saw it was freshly stained with her blood. Why felt she no pain when the sword cut her skin? It was strange, but more so that an Orc had an Elf blade in his possession. That alone was very interesting. Duvaineth was sure it was nothing, but she would keep it. Mayhap Lord Elrond could give her insight to the blade when she returned to Imladris.

And yet, she wondered, had the blade truly cut her skin without her feeling it, or had it merely been the excitement of battle? Duvaineth decided she would test it. Gripping the handle of the blade tightly in her hand, she held the weapon over her other hand and waited for the sharp burning sensation to come as she glided the razor edge over her palm. No pain came. Her hand bled, but she felt no pain, and the excitement of her fight against the foul Orcs had long faded. What was this? Duvaineth could not help but gaze at it as it glittered softly in a white light under the rays of the Sun, many a thought coursing through her mind. This was indeed a marvel to ask Lord Elrond of.

Duvaineth went in search for her horse, and soon found her where she expected her to be. "Well done," she murmured, tenderly stroking her muzzle. In return, Gilroch nuzzled her cheek, inciting a soft laugh from her mistress. Duvaineth turned and knelt at the river, and as soon as her wound was cleaned and bandaged, she mounted her faithful companion and hurriedly urged her into a gallop. If there were five Orcs roaming, then there were more, and Duvaineth cared not to come across the path of twenty Orcs.

Duvaineth breathed a quiet sigh of relief the moment she was out of the forest. The stench of Orcs had forced her smelling away and made her stomach unwell, and she missed the sight of sunlight filtering through the numerous trees about her. As she rode across the plains, her mind drifted to her discovery of the Elven blade. It enthralled her deeply and was indeed riveting. It was no mere Elven blade, either. It had its own ability, a part of a sword she had never seen before. The ability to cut the skin and inflict no pain was indeed mysterious, and Duvaineth could not help but wonder about it.

And all the while be troubled by it.

Her thoughts on the sword were brief. The scenery about her changed and became familiar to her again, but it brought her no relief. In truth, Duvaineth had paid little heed to where her road took her. She simply rode south and slew a small number of Orcs along the way, and then continued on. But this time she knew where she was.

She was in Enedwaith. The realization surprised Duvaineth. Verily, had she traveled so far? The thought had not come often to her mind and when it did, it was only brief. To the north she saw the grasslands and distant vision of the still waters of what she recognized to be the Fords of Isen. Rohan was not far, and neither was the welcoming Curunír, lord of Isengard, ever an ally of the Elves. Duvaineth looked eastward. Rohan was not far, and she wondered for a moment whether to cross into the lands or not. As soon as the thought came, she dismissed it. No. It was too close to Mordor for her liking. Perchance she could seek the guidance of Curunír, but it would not be today.

Duvaineth tightened her grip on the reins and guided her horse away from the east, and went another way. She would avoid Rohan as much as possible, no matter how many Orcs wandered the lands; the land alone was dangerous with its Horse-lords.

A glance at the sky told her evening would soon be upon them. Gilroch had borne her mistress throughout the day along the rocky plains with little rest, and she well deserved a good night's respite. Duvaineth soon stopped and made camp, first tending to her dear steed. "You have done well today," she said softly to the animal. She reached into her sack, pulled out an apple and fed it to her, gently brushing her flank. "Rest well tonight, melui vell. You have earned it."

The cold pressure of an arrow tip at the side of her neck made her stop. Her eyes shifted to the side, but all she saw was a glimpse of someone garbed in green and brown leather. A voice spoke, quiet and deep, "What is an Elf doing in the harsh lands such as Enedwaith? It is not wise."

"Not all are wise."

"Indeed. But you knew I was here."

"What inclines you to believe so?"

"You are smiling." Unbeknown to her, the owner of the arrow at her neck smiled too. With a soft laugh, he lowered his bow and returned the arrow to his quiver. "Dearest Duvaineth!"

Duvaineth turned and smiled at the Man before her, a look of pure joy alighting her face. "Aragorn."

The Ranger smiled broadly at her and the two embraced each other with great joy and Elvish words of greeting and happiness. "Forgive me, my friend. I am surprised to see you here," Aragorn said as he withdrew, a smile still perched on his lips. "I expected you to be in Imladris."

"Alas, the callings of the world became too loud for me to ignore another day," Duvaineth replied. "I rode from Imladris a fortnight ago, and have since been treading many roads."

"And by chance we meet here, of on all interesting lands to meet."

"I think we know come this time the odds of our meetings to be fairly strange, friend, and roads not far from interesting."

"No, indeed!" Aragorn laughed.

A fire was made, and they sat nearby the burning flames. Aragorn told the Elf all to have transpired in the recent months since they last saw each other. As a Ranger of the North, he did not lack stories to tell. As grim as they often were, there were some that were enjoyable. Duvaineth happily listened to the stories her friend recounted, whether grim or not so, or those that lacked the entity of Orcs. She was happy to see him again after so long, and his company was quite comforting to her after several days of bearing such heaviness on her heart. His stories lifted her spirits. It was soon Duvaineth's turn to share her own tale or two. "Before my departure from Imladris, I crossed paths with Mithrandir. He bid me farewell with a riddle."

"Ah." Aragorn laughed heartily. "Why lack I any disbelief?"

"Often speaks he in riddles, and often wonder I if he speaks them with meaning or to feed the fire of his amusement," Duvaineth said, laughing also. "But this was no riddle of bidding a simple farewell or safe travel. It was…grim, and long has it remained upon my mind. It was a warning, I believe. About what, I know not. He told me it has not yet come to pass, and I feel it concerns the growing strength of Sauron."

Aragorn frowned. His interest piqued, he leaned forward, anxious to hear of this riddle. "Tell me," he urged.

Duvaineth nodded. She thought back to the Wizard's words and, clearing her throat, she repeated them. "When grows darker the shadow, when becomes quiet the world and little hangs in the air…return to Imladris, and seek me. He warned me we would meet not again for some time, and deeply does it worry me."

Aragorn leaned back and pondered it. His frown had deepened as he contemplated her words, nodding after a moment. "I see how you mean," he said, and sighed. "Unfortunately, I must agree with you, and you know I would go to agree with gladness on many things, but on this I would that I could disagree with all fervency. His riddle indeed concerns the strength of Sauron. Perchance might it be he gathers more forces? I cannot say for certain. But I would dwell not upon it too heavily. When go you to again traverse your road, your mind shall be needed elsewhere."

Silence fell upon them, but it was soon diminished by another tale from the Ranger. Yet his thoughts remained on the Elf. He wished her not to dwell on such troubling thoughts no more than he wished himself not to. Often her mind was visited by them. As Duvaineth divided some bread and fruit, Aragorn asked her a question that caused her to pause, but she knew he spoke out of concern for her. "How fare your dreams?" When he saw the sudden stillness of her hands and the gloomy look in her eyes, Aragorn knew the answer. The dreams had long returned, and darker than before. He smiled sadly. "You need say nothing. I am sorry."

After a moment, Duvaineth let out a long sigh. "There are very few to whom I speak of my dreams. You are one of them. But you need not your question answered, for assuredly you see the answer in mine eyes alone. They are my greatest weakness. I had hoped when setting forth from Imladris they would cease; as though the lands alone might ease them. I was wrong."

"Is such why you sought to travel?" Aragorn asked gently. He earned a nod from her.

"I cannot sleep. I know not when the last time I slept peacefully was, to have no darkness disturb me," Duvaineth said. "I am weary, Estel, yet afraid to close mine eyes. He haunts not only my dreams, but burdens my heart with a heavy shadow as well. Am I to ever be free from these nightmares? Or am I to live these days with little peace to mind and heart, forever shadowed?"

Her words were sincere. If one did not believe such to be true, then a glance at her eyes would quickly change their mind. She lived in an endless fog of darkness, and a heavy heart of sorrow. Little brought her peace, and not even the healing of her own kin could wash it away. Although she had been healed of her physical hurts, she was healed not of the wounds of her memories.

Aragorn gently took her hand in his own and, squeezing it tightly, he spoke to her in a tone only a brother could voice, "You are a strong elleth, Duvaineth. Told me you have of the times of darkness you have suffered, darker than that you suffer at present. I have seen you bear through the shadow that follows you as a haunt. Wan are these days for all the Free Peoples of Middle-earth. You know well of my love for the wild to be far and great, yet in the wild even I struggle to find contentment. But you will not falter. This I know truly."

The sadness still lingered in her eyes, but on her lips was a smile. "Thank you, dear friend," she whispered. "Your words soothe my heart. Although the shadow comes and goes as it wills and often lingers more than I desire it to, you have eased it. Such is my hope that the darkness one day shall meet an end, that we may see light."

Aragorn merely smiled, and said nothing. But he needed not to; his smile was enough in words. He too hoped one day the darkness would end.

It was Duvaineth who offered stay for the wandering Ranger. Night had now fallen, the air having grown chilled, and Enedwaith was no place to wander come nightfall. As keen as Aragorn's eyes were, they were no vision of an Elf's, and could easily betray his safety, unlike in daylight where he scourged every morsel of his surroundings. Aragorn gladly accepted her offer and in return, he offered to keep watch. Had it not been for the knowing look and raised eyebrow Aragorn gave her, Duvaineth would have protested, but she knew, even though he took watch throughout his travels, some nights not even entailing a slumber, Aragorn still slept more than her.

Duvaineth agreed, although begrudgingly so, and went to sleep, but not without difficulty and the occasional shift and shuffle in her bedding. This went not unnoticed by Aragorn. Soon came the tossing and turning and the quiet murmurs from her lips. Though her voice was soft, Aragorn heard her and recognized the name she spoke in her sleep and the pain that touched her tone. His heart ached for her. Aragorn turned away from his watch and went to the troubled Elf, and knelt at her side. Tenderly, he placed his hand upon her forehead and murmured softly:

"Gerich 'ûn sui raw,  
>'Law lîn síla sui Ithil,<br>Meleth thilia min hin lín,  
>Suil Annui, erio thûl lín i faer hen."<p>

Her fervent, restless tossing and turning ceased as calmness fell over her. She soon entered a peaceful, dreamless slumber, her dark dreams but a mere flicker upon her subconscious. She would sleep tonight shorn of the heavy weight of her dreams haunting her, but Aragorn knew the soothing of his words would be short-lived and she had many a night before her upon her journey. He could only hope peace would be found amid some nights, for sleep came seldom to Duvaineth and peace least of all.

"Rest well, Meluiwen," Aragorn said softly. "You well deserve it."

Morning came all too soon. As dawn made its peak, the two travelers rose and quietly shuffled around and prepared for their departure as the hour approached. A fire was kindled, a small meal was eaten, and Duvaineth tended to her horse to ensure she was prepared for their journey. "Alas," Aragorn said sadly with a sigh, "it is here we must part ways. I would it be not so, for it has been some time since last we walked the same road together and dearly miss I your company. But I know you shall be well. Paths more dire you have treaded, and Enedwaith is naught compared to where you have treaded before."

"Nor is any road you should tread foreign to you. But I fear not for you, and I pray you be well and unhindered along your journey all the same!" Duvaineth said.

Aragorn smiled and gently held her face in his hands, leaned over and pressed a soft, lingering kiss on her brow. "Be safe, Meluiwen," he softly bid, and then he turned away and departed.

Duvaineth watched as the Ranger disappeared into the wilderness, cloaked with his face hooded and unseen to the world. A twinge of sadness stung her heart as she remembered Mithrandir's words, and she hoped it would be not so with Aragorn as well. "May this be not our last meeting for some time," she said quietly, but her attention was soon torn away by the soft caress of her horse's nose pressed against her cheek. Duvaineth laughed softly and reached up, stroking Gilroch mane. "Let us go, sweet one. The day awaits us." And she was certain Gilroch was eager to begin their trail.

Elf and mare rode through the day, save for a number of rests. However, such rests were brief and Duvaineth continued with haste. A growing uneasiness had been upon her since the morning. It did not lessen, and only continued to trouble Duvaineth as the day grew. And yet, nothing stood within sight nor could she smell anything in the air. There was naught of a suspicious sound beyond the thundering gallop of her companion. All was silent – mayhap too silent, and such increased the unease she felt. It gave her all the more reason to hasten, and she did so with an urgent chirrup to her horse. If Gilroch was not disquieted how her mistress sat stiffly on her back, then it was the tone of her voice that did, and she rode with greater speed.

Duvaineth soon began to notice the weariness befalling her horse. They had been riding since their last respite in the late morning, and it had been a few hours since then. Gilroch looked to be both forwandered and forhungered, and was in need of some rest. Duvaineth found little joy at the thought of staying Gilroch's pace as the uneasiness continued to dwell on her as a shadow, but she wanted not for her dear horse to collapse either. Given no choice, Duvaineth complied with her horse's needs and brought her to a watershed of the Angren. As Gilroch eagerly drank the flowing waters of the bank, Duvaineth quenched her own thirst.

"You must be hungry," Duvaineth murmured to her companion. She dismounted and retrieved her sack, searching for some food for her. She pulled an apple from her sack and held it up to Gilroch, who happily munched away at the offered treat. At seeing the quickness of her horse's eating, Duvaineth could not help but smile. "Forgive me, sweet one! I should not have neglected you so."

Gilroch swished her tail in response. Duvaineth laughed and reached for another apple, but stayed the motion. Her eyes shifted to the side and intently gazed at the plains behind her. There was something following her trail – or someone. It was near. Duvaineth's unease had erstwhile been seldom strong, even amid the present day, but she felt the disquiet to suddenly roar as a fire in that moment. It did not settle well with her. Quickly, Duvaineth retied her sack to the saddle, mounted Gilroch, and in a strong voice she urged the horse onward. Gilroch, too, seemed to have sensed their guests, for she rose on her hind legs and burst into a gallop and bore her mistress faster than Duvaineth had ever seen her run.

Duvaineth looked behind her only briefly, ducking as an arrow flew an arm's length above her head. She looked behind her again and this time, she was met with a displeasing view – and now knew the reason for her unease all throughout the day. They were no ordinary Orcs. They were Warg-riders. They rode fast and fierce against the wind, nigh as fast as Gilroch. And there were many of them. Mayhap she had made the mistake of continuing in Enedwaith.

Another arrow was shot, but it again missed her, nearly grazing her arm. Duvaineth turned around, retrieved her bow and notched an arrow, and shot it at one of the archers. It went into his chest and he fell off his Warg, defeated and left behind. There were three other archers among the large group of Orcs, and they all had their bows drawn and ready to fire. "Noro lim, Gilroch! Noro lim!" Duvaineth shouted, and her horse heeded the command.

Duvaineth turned again and shot another arrow, but missed. She needed not to succeed in her aim to lose one of the archers on her tail, for Gilroch rode under a tree and a thick, looming branch threatened to hit her in the face. Duvaineth ducked in time to avoid the collision, but the archer did not and fell from his Warg. Duvaineth would have laughed were her situation not so staid. She steered Gilroch in another direction, but her attention was heavily focused on her enemies. And notching an arrow and drawing back the shaft with what strength she could muster and trembling hands, she little noticed her surroundings or where she was steering her horse.

Had she been more precise with her aim and target and took a moment to look about her, she would have noticed the rocky and green pastures of Rohan.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: A small side note of two things. The translation for Aragorn's lullaby is:<strong>

**You have a heart like a lion,**  
><strong>Your radiance shines like the moon,<strong>  
><strong>Love sparkles in your eyes,<strong>  
><strong>Western Winds, may your breath lift this spirit<strong>

**And Meluiwen means lovely/sweet.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:**

**Hello, and happy late Holidays and happy New Year, everyone! I hope you had a wonderful holiday! Admittedly, I took a 'break' from my writing over the holidays - Hey, don't roll your eyes; even an author can take advantage of the holidays ;) - but I am very much ready and excited to return to writing and to share it with you all! This next bit is a mere thank you to particular people who left feedback and addressing an issue that has been made known to me, and yadda yadda yadda. Unless you're simply curious and want to continue to read my author's note to those readers, then feel free to just skip to the chapter! ;)**

**Alice-Ann Wonderland, K****at7CA, ****WargishBoromirFan - Where would I be without you three? I am very grateful for your feedback, especially you pointing out an issue you have noticed within the context of my chapters. I am now aware the dialogue comes across as awkward or hard to read, and I will run it through with my beta-reader to hear her thoughts on it. She is very well versed with Tolkien writing style and knows quite a bit; you should read some of her stories, really, they are fantastic! Even so we may have missed something, or I may have tried to reword a sentence and forgot to send it to her. Thank you for letting me know, and thank you for your support. It really does mean a lot to me!**

**Reviews are loved. Constructive criticism is worshiped. Please let me know your thoughts!**

* * *

><p><em>"Argh!"<em>

_Thump._

The last archer was slain. However, Duvaineth did not celebrate. The arrow buried deep in her shoulder distracted her from even the thought of breathing in relief. Celebrating would be far too dangerous while her victory and fate remained unknown to her. She knew it was only a matter of time before either her horse would tire out or the Wargs would catch up to her. It would be the end of Gilroch, a horrifying fate, and one certainly not deserved. Not when Gilroch had always remained faithful to her. No. It would not happen. Duvaineth would not allow it. She would have her flee. At least her life would be spared and she would find safety, and mayhap someone to care for her. It was a sacrifice Duvaineth was more than willing to make.

Duvaineth would fight her enemies and their pets to either her victory or death. She only hoped Gilroch would be safe.

"Flee, _melui nín_!" Duvaineth spoke to her horse. "Leave me be! Find safety!"

Duvaineth hoped, as she pulled her legs over to the side, that her horse would abide by her words. Gilroch was a faithful one, a steed never willing to leave her mistress. It was only in the most perilous of times the horse obeyed her mistress' commands for her to leave her, and even then there came many a time when she did not do so. This time, Gilroch did heed her words, much to Duvaineth's relief. The mare did not slow her gate when her mistress threw herself from the saddle and onto the ground, and soon Gilroch was but a small dot in the distance, soon disappearing within the body of knolls. Duvaineth was given no time to watch after her horse, for as soon as she dropped to the ground she heard a loud snarl and howls followed after.

The first nock of her arrow was ineptly aimed due to a trembling grip. It missed her target, but it grazed a leg of the Warg. It slowed the Orc-rider, yet it was not enough. It all happened in a blur for Duvaineth. She remembered only leaping out of the way, nocking arrows and slaying as many Wargs as she could. When her arrows became ineffective, the Elf drew her sword and quickly made her attack on them. Their riders fought back, and the Wargs attempted to as well. Duvaineth did well dodging and parrying the attacks, and managing to kill a small number of Orcs and their mounts, but not all. And then there came a searing pain shooting through her abdomen and all became but a very distant memory to her, so distant she could recall little as she fell to her knees. She remembered the sword striking her abdomen, staying in its place, and a great pain shooting through her entire body as she fell back. Defeated, darkness took her.

It was brief and when she awoke, a snarling Warg baring its teeth hovered over her face. The remainder of the Orcs sneered at her, but she did not hear them, her heart pounding heavily in her ears. "Leave her. She will be dead before we can have our fun," one Orc laughed wickedly. And then they were gone, certain her wounds would take hold of her.

And Duvaineth was certain, too.

* * *

><p>"My Lord Éomer, ahead! A horse!"<p>

The Third Marshall lifted his head and looked ahead among the dry heaths. Indeed, it was a horse, and galloping at a speed he had never seen one ride before. "It is frightened." He meant to speak quietly to himself, but instead he spoke in a loud voice. He mustered an ungainly apology for who he was speaking with before their interruption and spurring into a gallop, riding towards the frightened, fleeing white horse, and calling behind him for someone to follow.

Still mounted, Éomer reached the frightened horse and hastily but gently reached over and grasped its reins before it could be out of touching distance. "Whoa! Whoa, there! Easy, little one….Be not afraid." He gently stroked the steed's mane as he softly spoke in the Rohirric tongue. It eased the horse, but not much and not for long either. Soon, the horse was neighing loudly and rising on her hind legs, forcing Éomer to tighten his grip on the reins and gently pull her back towards him. She did not obey, however, and continued to fight.

Éomer again reared the horse back and continued to stroke its mane. As gentle as the touches were and the attempt to soothe its nerves, the effect was little. Déor, the rider that had followed, wondered out loud, speaking in a curious tone, "What could have brought it in such distress?"

Upon the question, the horse reacted as if she were answering. She reared back again, but this time her head turned towards the east. Éomer followed the horse's gaze, and immediately an ill feeling fell upon this heart. The mare had not come alone, the Horse-lord was certain of. "It tries to tell us something. I fear it may have a master and they are in trouble."

Quickly, Éomer dismounted his horse and moved to the other one, murmuring soft words as he carefully mounted. The horse allowed him, stopping its rough movements and standing still to allow him to settle in the saddle without rearing him off. "Gather half of the éored. We ride east."

"My lord! What if there is a large army whence the stallion came? We shall need more than half of them."

"We will soon learn the truth of the matter, no?" Éomer smirked. Without another word, the Horse-lord held onto the reins and turned the mare towards where she had gestured earlier. But before he could urge her forward, she let out a loud neigh and charged in a swift, almost alarming gallop. He had ridden across many plains in his life, and swiftly so, but never before had he ridden a horse with so much speed, against the wind itself no less.

There was little to see upon arrival at the sight, for it was almost barren save for the several bodies of Orcs, and a lesser number of Wargs. But there in the center of the field underneath a tree lay a lithe body. As Éomer dismounted, he noticed the person's breathing was shallow. He was alive. Relieved, but not slowing in haste, he quickly rushed to their side and knelt at the ground, but he stopped as astonishment swept over him. This was no Man. Nay, it was a woman, and no mere sword-bearer indeed. The carcasses of the Orcs and Wargs proved otherwise. But then Éomer noticed something, something rather strange, poking from the side of her hair. Carefully, he moved a few strands from their face and found the answer to his curiosities.

This was neither man nor woman, but an Elf.

Before he could dwell on the discovery, Éomer noticed the sword imbedded in her abdomen. Blood seeped from the wound, but it was the only wound that appeared to be the most severe out of the rest. He also took notice of the arrow in her shoulder, and one in each leg. Cuts and scratches adorned her cheeks and hands, and the sleeves of her tunic were partially ripped, revealing fresh, but smaller wounds. It was when he lifted his gaze to the injured Elf's face that he saw the deepest, most beautiful brown eyes he had ever seen staring at him. So she is conscious, Éomer thought as relief washed over him. He inwardly sighed.

She was looking at him, but her focus was scarce, and it was doubtful she knew of her surroundings. But he needed to know if she could hear him, and more importantly, if she could speak.

"Can you hear me?" he asked her, and received a slight nod in response. "Good," he said. "Do not move, my lady. Your wound will worsen should the blade move any further."

As he slowly, and very carefully, lifted the Elf in his arms to lay her half up right, he could not stop himself from wincing at both the painful sight and the gentle gasps and whimpers coming from her mouth. Her lips parted slightly as she attempted to speak, and it took several tries before she was able to force them out. "How…." She stopped and took a respite from speaking to gather her breath, finding it difficult to speak, but only a soft moan came instead of her words. But he knew what she was trying to ask.

Her voice was hoarse and sounded weak. Weariness was heavy in her tone. Éomer paused, his fingers now brushing against the hilt of the sword to grab it. He looked at her. "Your stallion is a very persistent companion, my lady," he answered her, forcing what he thought was a smile.

"Duvaineth," the Elf gasped. "You may call me Duvaineth…Horse-lord." Her breathing was becoming ragged.

"Duvaineth." Éomer nodded. "Your horse led me here. He was in great distressed, and no matter my attempts he would not be calmed. Then he led me east, and such is how I found you."

"She. Her name is Gilroch."" Despite the severity of the situation, she still managed to find humor in it and smiled.

"My apologies. Stay still." Éomer grasped the hilt of the sword. He looked at her, his eyebrows raised and eyes apologetic. "This will hurt." And slowly he pulled the blade from her body. It was not painless as he had said, but Duvaineth had felt worse, and despite this, she could not hold back the groans as her body burned with a torturous pain. At last, the blade was withdrawn from her and Duvaineth was left gulping for breath, and for a short time her heart pounded in her chest.

Éomer stared at the Orc blade with a dark look in his eyes, but his gaze was soon drawn to the injured Elf in his arms. He smiled at her, a soft light in his brown eyes. "I am Éomer, and you will not die this day. I give you my word."

Duvaineth managed a small smile before the weariness was too heavy on her. The pain had caused great strain on her body, and slowly she slipped into a deep slumber. Éomer's gaze was no longer on the Elf in his arms, but on the blade that had been imbedded in her. He held it tightly in his hand. The mere look at it both angered and disgusted him. The vile smell coming from the blade did not ease his revulsion. However, he soon realized the blade did not smell of only Orc and blood. This was a different smell. Looking more closely at the blade, Éomer saw a strange liquid intermixed with the Elven maiden's blood. It was thick and dark looking. He immediately knew what it was.

It was the loud neigh of a horse that broke him from his reverie and he looked behind him, startled but only briefly. It was his éored, having come as instructed by the command of their Marshall. Déor was the only one to dismount and came rushing to his lord, too kneeling at his side. The expression on his face upon realizing the warrior in Éomer's arms was in fact a woman, and an Elf at that, would have been more amusing to the Horse-lord were the situation not grave. "A…A…" He could not even utter the words out.

"An Elf," Éomer finished for him, a light hint of amusement in his tone, though he knew that was not what he was astonished by. Before another word could be spoken, Éomer's face quickly hardened and creased into a deep frown, and his eyes turning dark. "The blade used upon her had been coated in a lethal liquid. She has been poisoned. We must take her to Edoras – now."

Gilroch showed to be less agreeable with Éomer. She refused to allow the Horse-lord to come anywhere near her without her mistress within sight, and nearly kicked Éomer in the face. He successfully dodged the near attack and, despite wishing to not submit the Elf with too much movement that the journey would certainly provide, was forced to carry the Elf over to the stallion in fear of nearly being kicked in the face again, causality he wished to avoid. She was a stout mare, Éomer would say that much. The ride to Edoras was brief, but he doubted it was near comfortable for Duvaineth. She drifted in and out of consciousness several times, and was awake to feel a very uncomfortable jolt as they passed over the plains. She certainly felt it and, though her noises of pain were quiet, Éomer heard them. And so did Gilroch, who did not take the painful sounds coming from her mistress lightly, and so sped faster.

At last, the small mound that was Edoras was within sight and hastily Éomer rode through the gate. He paid little mind to the stationed guards and did not perform his custom to acknowledge them. Éomer's eyes were affixed elsewhere; a tall and majestic building that he looked upon with pride. Meduseld, his home. If only he returned with good tidings. Éomer did not waste another moment when he arrived to the flight of stairs leading to the great home. He swiftly dismounted and took the Elf in his arms, hastily climbing the stairs as he shouted orders to those about him. "Send for the Lady Éowyn, and be swift! Tell her I bring a guest in need of immediate healing, lest her death be upon our hands!"

Éomer rushed in Meduseld and sought an empty room, ignoring the puzzled looks and questions he received. He entered the nearest room and brought her to the bed, gently laying her down. The room was not much; it was small, but provided the necessities needed. He went about the room, fetching supplies that his sister would need. As Éomer brought the supplies to the bedside table, the door to the room flew open and a woman with golden hair and bright eyes rushed inside, stopping near the bedside of Duvaineth. Her eyes lifted to the Horse-lord without more ado. "Éomer!" she exclaimed breathlessly. "What has happened?"

"I will tell you later," Éomer promised. "She needs to be healed." He looked at the injured Elf beside him and then at his sister, his eyes conveying the urgency. "Immediately, Éowyn."

Éowyn only nodded. She leaned over and sought the wounds their guest bore, grimacing when she saw the long and deep gash on her abdomen. "This looks not to be a simple wound. Verily, Éomer, never do your returns lack surprises."

"It is becoming a regular occurrence, to be sure," Éomer scowled.

Éowyn did not answer him. She dipped the washcloth in the water and held it to the wound. "Have you any further surprises for me?" It was a murmur, spoken as a bitter jest. But as Éomer gazed at the pale, sleeping Elf, he hoped he would not again come across these 'surprises' for a long while.

"To be honest, sister," Éomer sighed, "I think I would prefer to have been pitted against a score of Orcs than to have found a dying Elf."

"I will do what I can, though little assurance can I grant you," she said quietly. "You must leave. It is not proper."

Éomer smiled to himself and slowly rose to his feet. "I know when my services are needed no longer," he said with a chuckle, and turned to the door. But he stopped and looked at his sister. "She is in good hands, Éowyn. This I know with great certainty." With a smile, Éomer turned and left.

"I hope," Éowyn murmured. She returned her attention to the septic wound and cringed at the sight, immediately searching her parcel for a particular herb.

Healing the wound was no easy task. The gash was long and deep, and much blood was already lost. Éowyn soon discovered the poison's attack on the Elf's body was slow. It brought little relief to Éowyn, however, and she wondered about the strangeness of it. Although luck was with her this day, Éowyn remained wary and concerned. She did not know for how long their injured friend had been bearing the wound, and Éomer spoke little of her. How long had the Elf been suffering the wound? Éowyn could not say, but she knew something for certain – she would heal from the wound, a lengthy time though it would take. Éowyn took joy in that at the very least, even if it was small.

Éowyn then tended to the smaller, less threatening wounds and cleaned away the blood and dirt that still remained. She then rose to her feet, finished, and let out a long sigh she did not know she had been holding. It was done. She would live. Now she needed rest – much rest.

Éowyn glanced at the door. She wondered where her brother was. It would be some time before their guest would rouse from her sleep – Éowyn wagered a good half day or so, and went in search of Éomer. She did not search for very long, for she soon found him in the hall nearby the room. He was in heavy discussion with someone, but when the door opened and Éowyn emerged from it, Éomer tore himself away from his company and went to her. His concern was evident in the depths of his hazelnut eyes. Before he could open his mouth to speak, Éowyn spoke, answering his unspoken question. "She will live and now rests. And of rest she will need plenty. To say she is well is difficult to speak. Come the time she awakens she will feel pain, and to heal her from the poison I used all my herbs. I need more if I am to ease the pain when she needs it."

"I will obtain more for you," Éomer said with a nod. His eyes shifted behind her to the door, then back to his sister. He smiled, but it fell when he saw the grey look in her eyes. "Look not so forlorn, my sister. You healed her! So smile for it."

Éowyn ignored him. "The poison was slow. It was meant to torture her until her last breath."

"Such is the way of Orcs," Éomer replied grimly. A thin thread of sarcasm hung in his tone, his hopeful attempt to remedy his sister of her bleakness rendered only a fruitless one.

Her brother's dry sense of humor often incited laughter from her. There was no man other than her brother who knew how to turn her frown into a smile, and keep it that way so that she would not fall into a bleak face. This time, however, Éowyn was not amused. "What happened?"

Éomer sighed and again looked at the door leading into the room their guest occupied. "If I knew, my dear sister, I would tell you."

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

**For those who may be wondering: No, Gilroch is not a Mearas. Although the appearance of her speed indicates it, I assure you she is not one of the Mearas breed. It would be very unlikely for Duvaineth to ride her if she was, or even**** Éomer himself. Not to worry - you will know soon! :)**


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: No, I am not dead! A miracle, I know. College has recently started back for me so my focus has been on it while continuing my writing with Scars. I would like to give my biggest heartfelt thank you to those who have reviewed the previous chapter, and those who have favorited and followed me and my story. It means the world to me that so many are following my story, so thank you so much! I would love it even more if you told me your thoughts about the story. An author always loves feedback for their work, especially if it's to help them improve! You don't have to write a novel; just simply tell me your thoughts. It really goes a long way! :)**

**As always, any significant notes about the chapter will be noted at the end to your viewing and curious pleasure. Reviews are loved. Constructive criticism is worshiped!**

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><p><em>"You are awake, I see. Always you savored your sleep." He stood before her, and she beheld his face in a soft glow of amber from the torch aflame he held in his hand. A smirk tugged at his lips, yet beneath the surface of his piercing green eyes, a dark look adorned them under the dim room and glow of the fire, and she saw past his roguishness. She had known him for far too long to not dismiss the sparkle of concern deep within his eyes, though it be small. The love he once openly showed hardly lingered, but it was there.<em>

_"I am very doubtful any soul can rest in these shackles."_

_"Do not snap at me for your own misgivings. You brought this upon yourself, Elf."_

_She did not answer. Instead, she slightly lifted her head and looked at him with the eyes that had always softened him, that had always returned him to his senses when his temper beset him. It did little this time, however. He returned the gaze with his hard eyes, an eyebrow raised, expecting her to answer. When she failed to do so, the Man merely laughed and turned, and looked about the room, in which she had been held captive for a number of weeks, his back turned to her. "You were oft the one of silence. Yet I understood. Why can you not return the same to me?"_

_There was a long moment of silence. It lingered more than she desired it to, and it tugged at her heart the longer the air remained still but of breath. At length, she answered him, slow at first and her voice quiet, growing stronger as she spoke. "And yet I have prevailed." A tired smile came to her lips. "I am sure your master finds that very displeasing."_

_The Man stopped and his back stiffened. Only she could know that was a motion of annoyance. He eventually turned back to her. The smirk had departed from his lips, but the hard gaze in his eyes did not. "Indeed he does." He sighed, and pulling an old wooden chair closer to him, he slowly eased himself into it. "Your will is far too great, Duvaineth. More than his patience could ever be. He will come to grow ill-pleased. You know the custom treatment given unto our prisoners."_

_Duvaineth shook her head slightly. Her eyes glittered softly, though he did not see it; he was avoiding her gaze. "You all are prisoners. To this are you shortsighted, or be you so blinded by his ill tongue of promises that you fail to see what he does? Servants to him you are not, fulfilling his will and thusly earning of rewards. You are thralls, bounded to him, and will receive naught."_

_"Oh, rousing speech, one who speaks of hope."_

_"Círdir."_

_He looked at her. If the hardness in his eyes had faded when he kept his gaze from her, then it returned the moment she spoke his name. "Do not call me that."_

_"That is your name."_

_"I must correct you. It was my name – until you ran your blade through me."_

_"You left me no choice."_

_"No." He abruptly rose from his seat, standing tall and his shoulders squared with heavy tension. "You had other choices. You chose that which you did."_

_Círdir's words only brought a smile to her lips. But it was not of joy. It was of incredulity. "Then, allow me to ask this. What of you, Círdir the Renewed? Choices were set before you, yet you chose to betray your brethren. You tormented and killed them, dismembered and dishonored them. Recall you not? Or bear you needless anger towards your own people that it has become but a distant memory?"_

_And he went away from her, her words a dark haze on his heart. It would be the last time she would see Círdir the Renewed alive._

Duvaineth awoke with a slight start, a quiet gasp escaping her lips, and forthwith was her body wracked with pain. Her movement, though it had been slight, incited pain and she could do naught but lie there in wait for it to pass. It did after some time, yet not soon enough, Duvaineth thought. Swallowing hard, she closed her eyes as she tried to relax her body into her bedding – which was soft and felt cool to the touch, and was rather comforting to her tired and aching body. She felt weak, her skin moist and cool by the perspiration that had begun to form, and her heart madly racing. She already felt weariness creeping upon her. Opening her eyes, Duvaineth gazed up at the ceiling above her. Her eyebrows furrowed. Turning her head, she looked up at the window nearby where she laid. A soft, dim light shined through the glass and bathed the room in a warm, amber glow. She guessed it was now evening, or close. The time of the day was no concern to her, however.

Duvaineth could not remember taking refuge from the open plains of Enedwaith, nor could she remember falling asleep in bedding where the ground was not beneath her. It dawned on her; no more was she in the wild. If she was not, then where was she? It was a wonder, but before Duvaineth could dwell on it further she was swept with a heavy wave of lethargy. She was unable to resist the calling to sleep; her mind was tired and her body more so, and the continuous throbbing pain coursing through her body only made her wakefulness wretched. It was but a blur in a candlelit fire, and a moment later she fell into a deep slumber, the little but strenuous efforts having been a great strain on her.

But little were her dreams pleasant.

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><p>Éomer strode in brisk, quiet strides as he made his way down the empty corridor. He passed a small number of men on his way; no more than two at the very least, and returned their acknowledgement of his presence with a nod. But his mind was not concerned with acknowledging their respect as he passed them. His mind was elsewhere on a different matter. Éomer was uncertain how he would present the news to his uncle about their new guest. However, that matter was the least of his concerns. His true worry was Théoden King's Council, and if they would or would not be in the presence of the king. Éomer thought not ill of them, for he thought well of them and favored their guidance and wisdom, yet he knew it would be trying to dismiss the council from the king once they had heard of the pressing matter that was at hand, and more so would it be if Grima Wormtongue was present.<p>

Wormtongue. The mere thought was poison on his tongue. Were it not for him being the king's advisor, Éomer would have seen to his departure long ago. His presence was little desired by him, and he was not the only one who desired him to leave. He was an ill man who spoke ill tidings with his tongue, his eyes gleaming darkly and eagerly and was often set upon his sister. The mere thought angered Éomer, and it was then he noticed he had clenched his hands into fists. If he did not like the Man for his sole appearance and voicing his opinions disrespectfully so, then it was his lust for Éowyn that which he detested him for.

When Éomer arrived at the Golden Hall, he half expected to hear hushed voices echoing in the large hall. He did not, and took a long pause straining to hear any voices that mayhap alerted him of his uncle's council in presence. When he received no an answer to his wonder, though taking the silence yet as a good sign, Éomer quietly moved behind a post and glanced from the side. He saw no one, and the king's counselors showed no sign of being within sight, much to the great relief of Éomer. There was only one present in the hall. Kingly, he appeared, sitting on the throne; his head raised high and proud, and his gentle but stern eyes staring before him. His face bore no smile or feeling, but it was clear he was quite content sitting in the silence that had been given to him, and Éomer was loath to disturb his uncle from what was perchance a moment of peace from the overseeing of his council; it was a rarity even for Éomer to breathe without someone at his side.

Éomer stepped away from hiding and walked forward, approaching him. He was greeted with a smile – such Éomer had not seen for some time, as his uncle's time was heavily consumed with many meetings concerning matters of the Mark with his council and allies, and most often, saved for a very small number, many were greeted with a sigh and a look of disdain shadowing his features. Éomer had expected the latter, but was pleasantly surprised. Nonetheless, he happily accepted the greeting. "My nephew! Come. It has been some time since I have seen a friendlier and less irate face."

"Have care with your words, uncle," Éomer grinned. "I am a Man who enjoys a challenge, and will take any string of words as an offering of it."

"And so you do!" Théoden heartily chuckled. "But let there be none of that today. I wish to enjoy your company, not spar with you."

"Do you not find sparing as enjoyable as you do my company?"

"Only when you lose."

Éomer roared with laughter, his uncle quickly following suit. Their laughter quelled after some time, and Éomer became serious. "Forgive me, uncle. I know how little your time spares you from the burdens of your counselors and everyday matters that find their way to you, but I have a matter I must bring to you most urgently."

Théoden did not sound or show his displeasure. It was the wary look in his eyes that told Éomer his words were far from appealing to him. But he nodded and with a wave of his hand, Théoden gave admittance. "Tell me, then, and let us be rid of it as quickly as we can. Seldom is it I receive peace from my duties, and I would fain indulge in them for as long as I may before again my duties beckon me."

"Yes. Of course." Éomer cleared his throat and after briefly forming the words he wished to say in his head, and thinking to his encounter with the Elf – Duvaineth, she had told him was her name. "There is a new guest in your halls. She is called Duvaineth, and she is wounded. I came upon her in the fields of the West-mark as I was scouting those lands upon your order. She bore a grievous wound that was poisoning her, and with as much haste that could be mustered I bore her here. Éowyn has healed her, and she now rests. Forgive me, uncle. I should have sought your consent before settling her so comfortably in your home, but her life was in my hands. I could not let her suffer—"

Théoden raised his hand, silencing him. "You need no forgiveness of mine, my nephew. What wrong have you done? None at all! You saved one's life, and such is more than I could ever beseech of you while you perform your duty I had bid you to do. I would deny no person that bears hurts a home, a grievous wound least of them all! You did well, Éomer."

Éomer bowed his head. "Thank you, uncle. Éowyn is with her at present, I believe. I left her, as she was beginning to look over her wounds."

"How long ago was this?"

"Not too long ago," Éomer replied. "Mayhap an hour, two at the most. I had to make quick arrangements to gather some healing herbs she may need hereafter, should she fall short of herbs for soothing the wounds of our guest."

"And I have finished." Éowyn appeared, pausing to bow to her uncle. Her appearance was lesser than when Éomer had seen her last. Her face was strewn with a heavy frown and her eyes tired; her long golden hair, which ere had been let down to flow freely, was now restrained in a tight bun with several long strands of hairs having escaped and clung to the moist skin of her neck and cheeks. The urgency of their guest's health had left a heavy weight on her, and the toils were now beginning to settle upon her.

"Has she awakened yet?"

"Only once, but it was brief. I gave her some water."

"And her wounds?"

"It took a great extort of energy and many supplies that which I am now spent of, but I have healed her wounds. I gave her a tincture to help counteract the poison. Now she needs rest."

Théoden's eyebrows rose in interest, yet behind the curiosity was deep concern. "Poison? You say she was poisoned?"

Noticing the heavy weariness about his sister, Éomer spoke before she could open her mouth, speaking grimly, "Yes, she was. When I found her, there was a blade imbedded in her abdomen, and when I withdrew it from her body I smelled a very strong odor from it. I knew the smell too well to be unmindful of it."

"Orcs," Théoden said despondently. "Such is the favorable custom to their enemies: torture."

"I foresee her becoming well in the coming days, though her recovery will be slow," Éowyn said. "But she will live."

"And we will let her rest," Théoden said. "I ask that you watch after her, Éowyn. See to her hurts and comfort. For now, rest. Very weary you are now, and well deserved it is."

"Indeed!" Éomer agreed. "You need sleep just as our guest does. For surely, if you weary yourself so, then it will be I who will carry you to bed myself," he added with a grin.

Éowyn laughed softly and nodded. "Very well. I will go and rest, and will return to our guest in a little while."

"Good then." Théoden nodded approvingly, smiling. "You spoke of your supplies to have been depleted in the event to further heal any hurts, yes? I do believe Éomer has remedied that issue, and you will be fully stocked with whatever you need."

"Yes," Éomer confirmed. "Amid your time of tending to Duvaineth, as promised I went and gathered for you some herbs. I know little of healing, but I bought them upon the recommendation of the woman who gave me the herbs, and they will prove useful should you need them. Should you need something specific, only say the word and it will be provided."

"Ah!" Éowyn said. "Duvaineth is her name? I will have to remember that, then. Thank you, brother. You truly are a blessing."

"Now go," Éomer said with a nod in the direction of the hall to their left. "Rest, sister. I will see you this evening."

She started to turn away when Théoden's voice stopped her as he rose from his seat. "I should like to escort you to your bedchambers, if you will allow it. So little do I receive the opportunity of peace, and I would fain revel in such time free of such irritation with my beautiful niece as often as I may. I do not spend it with you enough."

A soft smile graced Éowyn's lips. She bowed her head. "I would be honored, my lord."

With a last farewell and bidding to his sister to rest, Éomer turned and departed from them as they too left, going their own way. His walk was short and had little excitement, for he dwelled on his thoughts. It came to an end, however, when Éomer heard a shout. Shaken out of his reverie, he looked up and saw one from his éored approaching him with haste, a frightened look about him as if he had seen a great host of enemies. When he came to a stop before his Marshall, he was frazzled and out of breath, and hunched over his knees as he tried to properly regain his breath. "My lord…the white horse…you have brought, the one belonging to the Elf…refuses to be handled. She still remains at the stairs of Meduseld, and rears back and struggles, and rises on her hind legs. She kicked a few men to the ground who dared to near her. The horse is mad!"

Were the situation not so trying for his men, Éomer would have laughed. He even found himself chuckling, but it ceased upon the ill amusement on the Man's face, and he wondered what Éowyn would do were she with him. She would have given him a look, undoubtedly. Éomer inwardly smiled at that. He then grew serious, and with a pat to the Man's shoulder, Éomer turned and began walking down the hall to the great hall again. "I assure you. The horse is anything but mad."

When Éomer departed the Golden Hall, he saw that the Man's words had not been spoken in exaggeration. There was Gilroch at the feet of the flight of stairs leading to Meduseld, a small number of his éored attempting to take control of the reigns and pull her to the stables, but every attempt was folly as she refused and reared back. She rose on her hind legs once or twice, and nearly caused one to tumble to the ground. Éomer found the display rather amusing and stood there watching for a moment, but quickly he noticed the distress the mare was in and with hurried steps, he walked down the stairs to his men. "Enough!" he bellowed, and immediately upon hearing his voice, the Men stopped and looked at their Marshall with such relief that Éomer had never seen before in them, and he nearly laughed out loud again. But now was not the time for laughs. "You are causing the horse great distress. Leave her be!"

The small number of his éored that remained moved out of the way as their Marshall came forward. He took the reins from one and with soft words and a firm but gentle pull at the leather cords, Éomer brought her closer. At first Gilroch refused to relent, and quite harshly so. Even Éomer struggled to pull her back to him, but he continued the efforts gently, and all the while murmuring words of comfort in Rohirric. If she could understand his tongue, he did not know; but it soothed her, and at last she relented to him and allowed the Horse-lord to go near. Éomer reached out and tenderly stroked her neck, continuing with his gentle words. "There, there, little one," Éomer murmured affectionately to the stallion. "You are safe. No harm will come to you."

After great length in tender words and loving caresses, Gilroch was calm. Éomer heard some let out sighs of relief while others murmured words to one another. The Horse-lord did not hear much of what was spoken, only a small number. He distinctively caught a few words, however; 'mad', 'Elf', and 'curse' were among them. He heard them clearer than the rest. The Men of the Mark were somewhat wary of new wonderers, the Elves being the least desirable kindred to enter their beloved land. They were often ill thought of, believed to be evil of some kind bearing sorcery. It was long said they had a great "queen" hidden in the depths of trees in a forest named Lothlórien. Éomer hardly paid much mind to such conversations between his brethren; if anything he entertained himself to hear their talk.

The days had become darker and bearing lesser friends, that much was true; even he himself had long become wary of strange wanderers coming into the Mark, but he thought little of Elves. He certainly thought them not to be some evil soul carrying with them a dark magic. He was given little time to be wary of Duvaineth as a poisoned sword was imbedded in her abdomen. Though her situation was rather curious to him, and he had little to explain to himself what may have transpired, her wounds had not been staged. The Orcs littered on the ground spoke very strongly of the battle that occurred, and while Éomer felt he should be wary at least to a small degree, he verily doubted she meant any harm.

"Surely this horse is under a dark spell," one of his éored said.

"Yes, it would offer little surprise, if at all, to learn that Elf-witch placed the mare under her spell."

"It is a pity—"

"Enough!" Éomer whipped around and glowered at them with hard eyes. "The horse is under no spell, nor is the owner of any sorcery. She is foreign to our people just as we are to hers. What makes her a wielder of dark magic? Is it because she is an Elf? Foolish words you then speak, and boldly so. She could think us as ruthless Men with little care to that which breathes. If you feel she is truly of danger, then do go before Théoden King and tell him of this, for I am sure he would take absolute delight in hearing such about the guest in his home."

None spoke. They dared not even to share glances. "Well, then, my brethren," Éomer nodded at their sudden silence, "I advise you, Riders of the Mark, think before you speak and take great caution in your words and assumptions of one who needs aid. We risk our lives in the fields of our home, fighting and protecting what we love and hold dear to us. It is where that our wits are required of us. Surely you can afford to retain your common sense, with your tongue of all if not your decisions, when you stand not at battle. Even at home causing offense to one is very unwise, just as it is unwise to let your guard down in the fields of battle."

Having spoken his mind, and desiring not to hear words that had yet to be spoken by any of his men who would want to, Éomer turned his back to them with a sharp turn. Now faced with the mare, his gentle nature won over his sternness, and with a soft click of his tongue, he then led her away from the Meduseld and bore her to the stables. There, he tended to her, giving her a bit to eat and allowing her to quench her thirst. He sat on a stool nearby watching her, and though a headache had come to presence, the Horse-lord could not help but smile as Gilroch hastily drank from the trough. "You are very thirsty. I do not doubt it. You had quite the trial today, yet you prevailed well against it and saved your mistress from certain peril."

Éomer rose to his feet and went to the horse. He ran his hand over her side, lightly patting her in appraisal. "All she needs is rest and time to heal from her hurts, and I doubt not you too need your own respite. Rest well assured; the one who you bear through many roads will be well."

Éomer brought her to an empty pen and saw to her comfort one last time before leaving the stables. He found himself stopping for a brief moment to gather his own respite, having not realized he had been on his feet without pause since the moment he returned to Edoras. Despite how tiring it was, Éomer preferred it as so. Many a thought were on his mind and he found the distraction to be somewhat uplifting. He bore a frown far too often than he desired to but he could not see himself smiling during such times. Darkness went on to creep over the earth, shrouding them in a great fog. War was threatening the very existence of Middle-earth, and all that breathed and walked upon it. The Riddermark alone struggled against the advances of their enemies. Éomer hardly found reason to smile. So scarce it was whenever he did smile that it felt very foreign.

Although he did find the absurdity of his men to be quite amusing, despite the indignation of it, it had been rather refreshing. Humor had long been spent from him. Mayhap some things were possible.

Éomer sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes. It was not yet past noon and already he felt tired. He looked where he had last been at the steps to Meduseld and shook his head. It would be a very long day indeed.

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><p><strong>Author's Note: Cirdir, as you may have guessed, means 'renewed'. I also took it upon myself to attempt to add some humor into this chapter. It has been a rather grim two or three chapter's, has it? As much as I would love to live in Middle-Earth I cannot imagine the War of the Ring was a pleasant time to live in. ;)<strong>


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